Burn (L.A. Untamed #2)

by Ruth Clampett

  “So you’re saving my ass and now I owe you big time. And look at it this way, it’s a home-cooked meal with cake for dessert.”

  “And remind me what I’m being thanked for?”

  “For being nice to me. My jerk brother must have told her that.”

  “Is it rare for people to be nice to you, Trisha?”

  I chuckle. “Yeah. It’s rare. I don’t think I have to explain why. You know me pretty well at this point.”

  His eyebrows knit together. “You’re not so bad.”

  “Thanks.”

  He taps his knee with his fingers.

  “So tonight we will celebrate you,” I tease.

  “This is so weird. Seriously.”

  “Well it’s true that you’re a good man, and now you know that I need reinforcement from my family.” I nod and grin.

  He looks over at me with wide eyes. “Are they really that bad?”

  “No, my family is great actually. I’m the problem . . . the black sheep, and they’re always having to deal with my snarky attitude. I’m pretty sure I’ve exhausted them beyond measure.”

  He nods his head in agreement. “Oh, I get it. You exhaust me all the time.”

  “Shut. Up. You,” I say, shaking a fist at him.

  He points at me. “See, this is exactly what I’m talking about.”

  We’re still bantering back and forth when we approach the front door of my parents’ place and it swings open wide.

  “Hey!” Paul leans back toward the entry hall. “They’re here,” he calls out down the hall before extending his hand out to Joe. “I’m the older brother,” he says with a grin and they shake hands.

  I roll my eyes. “Joe, this is my brother Paul.”

  “Good to meet you,” Joe responds while I push them both in the house and toward the living room.

  Paul looks over his shoulder with that stupid grin still on his face and his eyes wide as he waggles his brows. His expression of approval doesn’t surprise me. Joe is very presentable. I just hope they don’t all make asses of themselves making assumptions about us and saying things to embarrass me.

  As we step into the living room I take a deep breath. “Hey Dad, I want you to meet my friend, Joe, from the station.”

  When Dad gets one look at Joe he sets down the remote and stands to greet him. I lose my chain of thought for a moment because Dad has usually been standoffish with any guy I brought home.

  As they shake hands Dad asks, “Joe . . . ?”

  “Murphy, sir. Joseph Murphy.”

  Dad’s chest puffs out and he stands taller, but he’s still not a match for Joe’s height. “Yer family’s Irish?”

  “Yes, sir. Galway and farther North.”

  “Millie!” Dad calls out toward the kitchen. “Come meet Joseph.”

  “It’s Joe, Dad,” I correct him.

  I’ve got to say, I’m getting a real kick out of the excited look in Dad’s eyes. I’ve never introduced my parents to a guy they were impressed with right off the bat. This is new territory for me.

  Mom knows something’s up and skitters into the living room. She stops in her track when she sees Joe and her fingers flutter up to cover her mouth. “Oh my,” she gasps.

  I’m tempted to push her back into the kitchen. If she starts acting like that crazy Mrs. Bennett from Pride and Prejudice we’re going to have to leave.

  “Mrs. McNeill,” Joe says with a smile. “Nice to meet you.”

  Mom smiles like she’s meeting the non-asshole version of Mr. Darcy. “So nice to meet you, too.”

  “I need a drink,” I announce loudly. “How about you, Joe?”

  He shakes his head. “No, I’m fine.”

  I shouldn’t leave him alone with my parents but if I don’t step away I’m going to say something bitchy. When I get to the kitchen Elle is slowly stirring the gravy on the burner. I fold my arms over my chest.

  “You didn’t tell them that I’m crushing on him, did you?”

  Her mouth drops open but then she smiles. “Hey, Trish. No, of course I didn’t tell them that. Paul hasn’t either. We aren’t idiots.”

  I shuffle my feet. “I suppose you’re not.”

  She turns the burner down and sidles over next to me. “But holy hell, woman! That man is hot!”

  I smack my lips and grin. “Right?”

  “It’s no wonder you want to climb his tree.”

  I sigh. “He’d be such a fine tree to climb.”

  Elle walks over to the door and peeks out for another look. “I think Millie’s flirting with him.”

  “Ewww,” I say, leaning into her to check out what’s going on as well.

  “She even took off her apron.”

  “And he brought her favorite wine. She’ll never let him leave now.”

  “Whispering Angel?” Elle asks. “That’s pricey.”

  I shrug. “He insisted.”

  Elle shakes her manicured finger at me. “Gurllllll!” Apparently that’s girl code that he’s really impressed her.

  “Don’t get too excited,” I say. “We keep agreeing to just be friends with no benefits.”

  “Are you nuts? Why would you agree to that?”

  “The reality is I’m still in shock over Mike and not even close to being divorced yet, he’s damaged from his marriage, and to top it off, we’re forbidden to be together because of our oath. We’re kind of a hot mess.”

  “Oath?”

  “We’re firefighters, Elle. They forbid fraternization and for good reason. Complicated emotional relationships with people you could likely end up in a life-or-death situation with, is neither smart nor tolerated.”

  “Right,” she agrees but I can almost see the wheels turning in her head.

  “What if you were in different stations?”

  “I don’t want to be in a different station than Joe.” I can feel my expression sag just at the thought of it.

  Elle glances at me and then nudges my shoulder. “Well, let’s not worry about that right now. You never know what will happen. Let’s get out there and join them. Okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “Can you pass the creamed corn?” Patrick asks. He keeps side-eyeing Joe but hasn’t tried to converse with him much. He’s never been so good with change, and this year between my marriage failing and Elle joining our clan, there’s been a lot of it and that’s not even counting his crazy girlfriend.

  “So Trisha tells me you’re an accountant,” Joe says.

  Patrick nods. “I work for one of the companies that insures the studios. I also have a side tax business with a number of clients.”

  “Cool,” Joe says. “My dad was an accountant when I was growing up.”

  Patrick lights up and sits up straight. “What does he do now?”

  “He’s CFO at a hospital in Eugene, Oregon, where I’m from.”

  Patrick shakes his head eagerly and nods to Mom and Dad. “See.”

  Confused, Joe looks over at me.

  “We tease Patrick about his line of work . . .”

  Patrick sighs. “All the time.”

  “Why do you tease him? Every family needs someone who has a good head for numbers. You’re lucky.”

  Patrick looks over at Joe with so much appreciation that he almost has goo-goo eyes. If he weren’t straight as a ruler I’d think he was crushing on our dinner guest.

  “How did you end up in firefighting?” Dad asks Joe, changing the focus away from Patrick.

  His eyes darken and his jaw tightens as he takes a deep breath. “I have a very strong sense of right and wrong, sir. I was a teenager when 9/11 happened and afterwards I wanted to enlist as soon as I was old enough, but my mother couldn’t bear the idea of it.”

  Ma shakes her head vigorously. “Oh no, you could end up deployed to the Middle East. I don’t think I’d be able to live with the fear if one of my boys did that. The stories I’ve read about it are horrible.”

  Joe gives her a knowing look and nods. “So she convinced me that the
re were other ways to make a difference. Firefighting felt like the next most noble thing.”

  Next most noble? My heart thuds at his confession. He’s such a good man, far too good for me. Which is only confirmed when my next series of thoughts stray into my powerful attraction to him.

  There’s something about a real man, one who’s strong and protective, and looking out not just for others, but for the greater good . . . it’s so appealing. Like this man wasn’t sexy enough.

  I let out a quiet sigh of longing.

  Dad appraises him with a serious gaze. “Our Trish says you’re a lieutenant.”

  He nods. “I am.”

  “Your folks must be very proud of you, son,” Dad says.

  It’s obvious how impressed my parents are with Joe. I’m glad they like him but this conversation has stirred me up, and I can’t help but wonder about the different ways I’ve disappointed my parents. Yet what if my career choice has provided some measure of redemption?

  I know this isn’t the time or place to ask, but I’m compelled to seize the moment and ask the question I’ve often wondered.

  “Are you proud of me, Dad?”

  His eyes grow wide. “Of course I am. Why do you ask?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s during those times on a rough call and the fear starts to wear you down . . . it’s just good to know that what you do means something to the people closest to you.”

  There’s a weighted moment of silence and then Ma looks at me with glazed eyes. “We’re very proud of you, Trish.”

  The corners of my mouth turn up. “Good to know.”

  The conversation shifts when Elle asks Patrick to pass the salad bowl and Paul teases her about being a rabbit. As I listen I feel Joe’s gaze on me before I turn to look and see his quiet smile. A second later I feel his hand reach under the table and wrap around mine, before squeezing it gently.

  A warmth wraps around me, and I want to curl up inside of the feeling until my cold heart has thawed. The sensation is vaguely familiar yet completely new.

  Joe rubs his thumb over the top of my hand and squeezes it one more time, before letting go. I have an overwhelming desire to kiss him and I look down at my plate and take a deep breath so I can get a grip.

  The warm feeling hits me again and my brain starts to compute and immediately I feel concern and a bit of panic. Could it be?

  No.

  That wouldn’t be smart, and I need to be badass and strong-willed as I try to rebuild my life.

  But then the warmth hits me again and takes my breath away. I’m left with an even stronger desire to kiss him. That’s it . . . holy hell. There’s no doubt. This is serious.

  I’m friggin’ falling in love.

  We’re halfway back to my place and Joe has barely said a word.

  “A quarter for your thoughts,” I say to break up the silence.

  He glances over at me. “Quarter?”

  I shrug. “Inflation.”

  “I liked your family,” he replies.

  “And boy oh boy did they like you!” I shake my head. “My mother was downright embarrassing.”

  He smiles. “Nah, she was sweet.”

  “In the kitchen after dinner my dad told me that you were welcome at our house any time. That’s about equivalent to winning the Nobel Peace Prize in my family.”

  “I think he likes firefighters. You know that’s nothing new. We get a lot of that from the public . . . like they think of us like we’re superheroes or something,” Joe says.

  “Well, we kind of are, don’t you think?”

  “No. We’re just well trained and disciplined about our job.”

  I roll my eyes. “Right. Just like the cashier at the drive-thru Starbucks is well trained. I like that you’re so modest. It’s very appealing.”

  He doesn’t respond, which worries me, and when we pull up to the house everything suddenly feels very formal as he walks me to my door.

  “Okay, I think I’m going to crash. Thanks for tonight.”

  My heart goes cold. That’s it? Thanks for tonight? What the hell? Have I been reduced to being an annoying acquaintance? I’m suddenly wrestling with all these girly love feels and he’s acting like he can’t wait to get away from me.

  I’m not willing to give up potential intimacy so easily so I gesture toward the house. “You want a beer or something?”

  Slipping his hands in his pockets, he drops his gaze to the ground. “Not tonight. Can I have a raincheck?”

  Damn, now he’s being polite. I hate that shit. It riles me. “Look, Joe, don’t worry about a raincheck, okay? I’ll see you around.”

  I jam my key in the door, crank it open, and bust it closed in record time. I’m tempted to look through the peephole to see his expression but I resist the urge recognizing that it could potentially piss me off more.

  God, now I’m becoming one of those desperate, dramatic women I detest. Awesome.

  Once inside, I pace back and forth through the house cursing Joe and then my life, until I cycle back to Joe again. I take small moments to chastise myself . . . after all he’s made it clear he wants to be friends. So just because I got love-struck goofy doesn’t mean he wants to get goofy too. I know he’s damaged goods from his divorce. He’s probably more messed up from what his ex did to him than I realized.

  Plus it seems unlikely that he’s been “working on his issues” and seeing one of those pussy L.A. therapists that repeats everything you tell them back as a question and then charges you three-hundred dollars for their precious time.

  I storm into the kitchen for a bottle of wine, before realizing that tomorrow is my Trader Joe’s run and so I’m wine-less and screwed. Then in a moment of brilliance I remember my secret stash of miniature airplane wine bottles. I dig through the cupboards until I find my hoard. They’ve been sitting there a while, but isn’t that cool with wine? That shit likes to age, even if it’s in a tiny plastic bottle with a screw-

  on cap.

  I down the first one pretty quickly and storm through the house a few more times before stopping at the kitchen window to take in the view. Well, well, well . . . what is the big man doing in his tiny house? Apparently he hasn’t crashed yet since I can see the flicker of a TV screen.

  You can bet that pisses me off. I stuff a few of my tiny bottles in my pockets and storm out of the house.

  I knock hard on his door, and a second later, knock harder still.

  Come on, Joe. It’s not like you’ve got to climb down a ladder from your loft.

  I’m gearing up to give the door a swift kick when he shows up and opens the door halfway.

  He looks irritated. Well, join the party, Joe.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  “I want to talk. Can I come in or do you have company?”

  He squints and studies me like I’ve lost my mind. “No, I told you I’m going to crash.”

  “But not right away, obviously.” I wave at his jeans and sweatshirt.

  “Soon,” he says.

  I push the door open, and step past him until I’m inside. Digging into my pocket, I pull out a tiny bottle and then hold it up for him. “This is for you . . . a tiny bottle of wine for the big man in his tiny house.”

  He arches his brow and doesn’t take it. “You seem very pleased with yourself. Did you plan this out?”

  “Hardly. If I had planned anything tonight, it would’ve been something far more exciting.”

  Folding his arms over his chest, he shakes his head. “Really?

  I give him a long look. “Yup.”

  I walk to the back of the rig, kick off my shoes, and climb onto his bed until I’m leaning against the outside wall. “So what are we watching?”

  He slowly walks back to where I’m sitting and just stands for a minute surveying me, his arms still folded. “I’m sorry, but were you invited back here?”

  I shrug, and hold the bottle out to him again.

  He keeps staring. He clearly has no idea of my
tenacity when I’ve made my mind up about something.

  “Go on now, take it. Hopefully it’ll cheer you up.”

  “Alcohol is a depressant,” he grumbles as he apparently surrenders and climbs onto the bed. After unscrewing the bottle, he takes several long swigs.

  Glancing over to my right, I notice that the shelves built into the sides of his bed are full of books. I wonder if they’re those biographies he likes to read and I pull one out, holding it up toward the light so I can read the cover.

  “Amelia Earhart?” I ask. “Really?”

  “What? I’m not a misogynist, if that’s what you’re implying. I read books about women too, you know.”

  “Well . . .”

  He narrows his eyes at me. “What?”

  “Where’s my quote?”

  “Okay, let me think . . . how about this . . . Never interrupt someone doing what you said couldn’t be done.”

  Grinning, I fist pump the air. “Oh I like that!”

  “She was tough, I’ll have you know,” he says.

  “My kinda gal.”

  “You kind of remind me of her.”

  “In what way?”

  He shrugs. “You’re true to who you are, and you’ve forged your own path . . . so you’re both trailblazers. That takes a great inner strength. As you know, female firefighters still aren’t very common.”

  “It’s still a boy’s club—girls keep out.”

  He arches his brow at me but doesn’t comment.

  I fluff the pillows behind me and settle back before pointing to the TV. “The cooking channel? Seriously?”

  “What did you think I’d be watching?”

  “Well, I was hoping for cartoons.” I crack open my second bottle and realize that he’s staring at me with dark eyes as I slowly lick the wine off my lips. The way his gaze lingers as he takes a deep breath is only the smallest bit of encouragement, but I’ll take it.

  “I still don’t understand why you’ve got this on. You like cooking that much? I know you do a great job when it’s your turn at the station, but you don’t really have a workable kitchen in this thing.”

  “I used to love to cook. I considered myself a gourmet.”

  “Really?” I try to picture him with a white apron and chef’s hat and it makes me giggle.